


Tied

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bruce Has Issues, Bruce Needs a Hug, M/M, Protective Tony, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:54:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2563955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are rules to fitting your life in a bag.</p>
<p>Rules that don't always work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tied

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Then and Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2536349) by [ChibiYoda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiYoda/pseuds/ChibiYoda). 



* * *

 

 

Four weeks after SHIELD falls, General Ross has an approved warrant for Bruce’s capture.

 

It had been fun while it had lasted, his time in the Tower (fun is probably the wrong word. Amazing, wonderful, beautiful (shit, that sounds … ‘beautiful’, Banner, really?) relaxing), and some pathetic piece of him had wanted it (wants it) to last, to finally have some place to rest, to live, to start to think of as home (and how many times has he slipped and called it that? ‘Home’. Like he belongs here).

 

( _You don’t deserve it here_ ).

 

With SHIELD gone there’s nothing to push Ross back, to feed him a line of red tape long enough to choke on, and if he wants Bruce, he’ll get him – but that doesn’t mean the Tower has to crash down along with him.

 

And so, when he moves, he doesn’t even think about it.

 

The bag is yellow and flaking and wrinkled from the time it’s spent crammed underneath the head of his bed, and when he pulls it out it’s as light and hollow as the numb feeling building up inside of his chest. He shakes it, puffs it open – it’s not really convenient, doesn’t blend when the backdrop is a modernized city of money and not a decaying third world country, but it’s a bag, nondescript. On the right streets, in the right crowd, it’ll work.

 

(Pack what’s necessary).

 

The top of his dresser is covered in an array of chains – golden strands and circles that are deceptively thin, void of baubles or charms or gems to make them more than what they are. Natasha is not really one for frivolous finery, but after every mission, every trip, she brings back a chain to drape delicately over his neck, across a wrist, around an ankle. He’s never asked for them, and she doesn’t say anything when she gives them, but there’s always a small, muted smile in her eyes when she does, a smile that brightens every time he wears them around her afterward. There’s so many – they’ll tangle in the bag.

 

(Clothes are the most important. Commonplace, muted colors. Two shirts, three pairs of underwear and socks, one pair of pants. Move on).

 

Steve’s not materialistic, not really – anything the man owns has been given to him, not unlike Bruce. But where Steve doesn’t own, he gives. It’s no secret that the soldier is not unaware of his influence in the earlier lives of his teammates, and though Bruce tries to keep his childhood admiration and worship for the younger man hidden, Steve just seems to know. There’s an old authentic bomber jacket in the back of his closet, just behind an official leather Captain America jacket Steve had even signed on the inside. They’re too big, too noticeable.

 

(If there’s room, pack something small, something meaningful – keep yourself grounded).

 

There are splashes of purple all over the room – a purple Sharpie on the nightstand, a stuffed purple _something_ (dog? goat?) beside it, a miniature purple arrow on the dresser from which a few chains hang. Clint has professed to being horrible at giving gifts, but his teasing grin had melted into something a little more tentatively genuine when Bruce had revealed that his favorite color is purple. Apparently, it’s something the two of them have in common, and though he’s never outright taken credit for it, if the arrow is anything to go by, the purple trinkets that randomly show up in his room are from the sarcastic archer. They’re fragile, easy to lose.

 

(Take your memories, not what needs to be remembered).

 

Thor had gone to visit his girlfriend (Jane Foster. Of all the people in the world) one weekend and had come back with an old, miraculously still working Polaroid camera. Pictures are dangerous – his face splashed anywhere that people can access it is dangerous, but the photos Thor snaps are all solid, all physical, all single-copy. The mirror on top of the dresser is surrounded by snapshots of Bruce, sometimes alone and caught off guard, sometimes asleep and being posed over by Clint – there’s a few lopsided ones of him and Thor on the couch, of him and Steve over the chessboard, of him and Tony-

 

(Leave behind nothing that can incriminate who you are).

 

“Bruce?”

 

Tony’s voice is low, flat, from behind. Bruce doesn’t start, doesn’t turn his head toward the other man. His eyes flicker over the chains, the flecks of purple, the photos, the clothes. They skim over the perfectly made bed of grey cotton sheets (silk slides too easy, annoying, frustrating), the lamps he had picked, the alarm clock Steve had thrown out and Bruce had saved, the fake tree by the bathroom door. There are four large bookshelves overloaded with paperback novels of stories he hasn’t read, research he hasn’t done, an iPod deck with an iPod that’s filled with music he likes, a closet with clothes that _fit_. Picture frames he’s salvaged from thrift stores, DVDs he’s dug out from sale bins. Strings from a life he’s missed, from a life that has tried to build itself up again without his knowledge, his permission.

 

“Bruce?” Closer this time; he can feel the heat of Tony’s body slowly creeping its way up his back. “You-you gotta talk to me, big guy. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

 

“There’s too much.” He chokes on something in his throat as he says it. There’s an empty corner where Tony has convinced him to put a desk – a desk they had found online, cherry oak and simple with a chair to match that will arrive in five days – a small, retro green recliner in the opposite corner for reading that he sinks into every time he sits in it. He has seven different pairs of shoes. He’s been considering getting a rug. “I used to be able to do this in under three minutes.”

 

Bruce turns, then – his shoulders stiff though all that pushes down on them is air, an edge of familiar old fatigue slithering up his neck. Tony’s puppy brown eyes are on him, serious and unblinking, face shuttered into an emotionless mask that he has come to know all too well in the time he’s spent studying it.

 

(Leave behind nothing that can incriminate who you are).

 

_Calloused hands that frame his face, hot breath that bathes his cheeks, strong arms that bracket his body. Teeth that graze his neck, soft whines in his ear, the feel of sweat-slicked skin quivering beneath his fingers as they skim lower, lower. Fear giving way to shyness giving way to trust, of moving together with someone, of supporting and reaching. Days spent with numbers and formulas, nights spent with sheets and kisses, hope of doing something right-_

 

Tony’s hands are firm as they move (slowly) to brace his wrists; the bag jostles slightly in his grip. “You gotta give me a chance here.”

 

“Tony-.” The hold tightens, and he swallows. “It’s _too much_.”

 

“Life isn’t meant to be stuffed into a bag, Banner,” the other man growls, but the kiss he brushes against Bruce’s jaw is timid and gentle. “Stay. Live it. _Let me fix this_.”

 

The sigh that pushes from his lungs is both of relief and defeat, and his head hits Tony’s shoulder with a tired thud.

 

_Get out, get out, get out, **get out.**_

 

The bag slips loose of his grip and smacks to the floor.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So ChibiYoda and I were talking about Bruce (who doesn't talk about Bruce?) and somehow the idea came up of Bruce trying to pack his life back into a bag ... and no longer being able to. And how he would feel about that. So we decided to try an experiment where we both wrote on that topic, to see how differently they played out (because she writes amazing happy fluff and I write ... not happy not fluff). I linked hers; go check it out. :)


End file.
